


a hundred arms, a hundred years

by griffenly



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, Multi, Multiple Selves, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:28:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25296175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griffenly/pseuds/griffenly
Summary: They find each other, again and again.or, the Reincarnation AU no one asked for
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 78





	a hundred arms, a hundred years

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in... a hot minute. Please read & review, because I'd love the feedback! (I've also basically avoided s6 like the plague, so my apologies.)
> 
> If you'd like some song recs, can I offer you: 100 Years and A Sky Full of Song, both by Florence & the Machine!

**i** **.**

It began with blood.

Clarke knew, as she filled the bucket at the lake, that it was too heavy. It would be difficult to drag it back to the house at this weight, but it was equally undesirable to trek back to the lake for another, especially with night approaching rapidly. She was still getting accustomed to this new life in the countryside, still frustrated that her parents had uprooted her life in London to drag her out into the middle of nowhere. “We want a fresh start,” her father had said gently.

“From what?” she’d asked, bewildered. “What could we possibly need to get away from?” Even now, seven months later, they wouldn’t tell her.

As she heaved the bucket up and down, sweat beading at her brow, she could hear her mother’s voice in her head: _Don’t be so stubborn, Clarke_. The anger burned so hot in her veins she sat the bucket down too harshly, spilling some of the water over the side.

“Damn,” she murmured. She paused to catch her breath, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. Inhaling deeply, Clarke tried to steady herself, to let the fire dissipate in her bones.

She thought, helplessly, of her father. This new life as a farming man suited him, gave him the chance to meet new people and travel to new places he’d never been before. Right then, he was in a neighboring town to sell the produce and buy more livestock, and every minute he was gone made her chest ache terribly.

As she let her eyes flutter shut for just a moment of reprieve, mentally counting the days since he’d left, a man’s voice broke through her thoughts.

“Do you need some help?”

Her eyes flew open, glaring into the harsh sunset diminishing over the horizon. The man was nothing but a shadow ahead of her, but as he moved closer, Clarke could make out the curves of his arms, the wide halo of curly hair sitting like a mop on his head. She shielded her eyes with her hand, and her heart hesitated a beat when she didn’t recognize the person approaching her.

“No,” she stated firmly as he came to stand in front of her, “I don’t.”

“That looks pretty full,” the man said, nodding to the bucket abandoned by her feet. His eyes roved over her slowly. She took a step back, uncomfortable not by his gaze but about what he was hoping to find.

“It’s getting late, and I didn’t want to make a second trip,” she defended. His eyes glanced behind him, as though to confirm it would in fact be dark soon.

“Still.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Let me help you take it back to your home. It’ll take me far less time than it would for you to do it yourself.”  
  


Clarke bristled again, frustrated both by her perceived helplessness and by the fact that he was right. She lifted her chin and retorted, “Like I said, I can do it myself. My house is just over the hill there.” His eyes followed her own, and he smirked again. She felt herself blush, which only reignited her irritation.

He moved forward, and for one heart-stopping moment, Clarke thought he was reaching for her. But he merely reached for the bucket, laughing as he said, “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a bit stubborn?”

And it was that word, spoken from this strange man’s mouth but heard in her mother’s voice, which set her off.

“I _said_ ,” she grunted, lunging forward to grab the bucket’s handle, “I can do it.” They began to wrestle over it, and Clarke absently wondered how absurd they must have looked, this tall handsome stranger and Abby Griffin’s tiny daughter, battling over a bucket of warming lake water as the sun dipped below the hill.

“Hey, hey what the –”

“I told you to –”

“Would you _just_ –”

She heard, rather than saw, the bucket connect with his face.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groaned, dropping the bucket. He collapsed to the ground and flung his hand to his face. Clarke gasped as blood began to seep between his fingers, slow and red, and she moved towards him in an instant.

“Let me see it,” she said softly, grabbing at his face with gentle hands as she kneeled in the grass.

“ _Shit_ this hurts – no, you don’t need to –”

“Please, just let me take a look –”

“What the hell can _you_ do?” he near-screamed. The look he gave her contained so much terror it would have been comical if he didn’t have a wound gushing down his face.

“My mother is the doctor in town. She’s been teaching me.”

His dark eyes searched her face. “Wo-women… aren’t doctors,” he stammered, uncertain, and the almost apologetic glint in his expression dented her surge of anger.

“Well, _we_ are,” she said curtly. She lifted her hands to his face again, peeling his fingers back from the gash as his shock gave way to complacent exhaustion. Clarke sucked in a breath when she saw the wide cut above his left eyebrow. She could feel his eyes on her, not only watching her, but also _seeing_ her in a way a complete stranger shouldn’t be able to do.

“Okay,” she breathed, “the good news is that it isn’t very deep. We can stitch this up in no time. Let me just…” She looked around, searching for something to wrap around his head to contain the bleeding. Glancing down at her grass-stained dress, she nodded decisively to herself and ripped a section from her hem.

“What are you –”

“We need to keep pressure on it,” she explained quickly, wrapping the pale green fabric around his forehead to create a sort of crown circling his head. “This way you don’t have to try and focus on that while we walk. You may be a bit dizzy from the injury.”

Clarke’s eyes met his again, and she noticed for the first time just how deep and warm they were – iris melting into pupil, glowing gold in the fading sun. He nodded dumbly at her, fixing her with a look that she might have characterized as awe if she dwelled on it.

“Okay,” she repeated, “do you think you can stand?” He nodded again, and she stood quickly to help him up. His hands were large and calloused when they enveloped her own, and she swallowed thickly as he staggered to unsteady feet. The bucket of water lay abandoned to their left, and she silently scolded herself when she realized that only about a quarter of the water remained. With one hand gripping the bucket and the other fixed around the man’s waist, she began to guide them to her home.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” she said quickly, and her newfound friend let out a throaty laugh.

“Listen, I get it. My younger sister would’ve reacted the same way.”

Clarke smiled to herself and caught his own grin when she glanced his way. “My mother always calls me stubborn,” she sighed, “and it’s a bit of a sensitive word for me.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it as an insult,” he said around a laugh. “This world needs a few more strong-willed women.”

She could feel her cheeks turning red again. She fixed her eyes on the house slowly appearing above the hill, trying to still the staccato of her heart that she was certain the stranger could feel as she tightened her arm around his waist.

When they reached the house, Clarke left the bucket out front and pushed the door ajar, stumbling slightly as she pulled the man through. “Mother,” she called. Her eyes strained in the darkened room. “Mother!”

Abby emerged from the kitchen. “Clarke? You’ve been gone ages. I was about to send out a search party. Lord, it’s dark in here isn’t it? Did you –”

As she lit a candle, her mother’s face moved quickly from confusion to shock to outright horror. Clarke glanced down at her dress, torn and stained, and then at the man’s face, where blood was seeping through the hastily applied bandage, and realized it must look far worse than she predicted.

“We’re fine, everything’s fine,” Clarke said hurriedly, moving the man inside and seating him in the rocking chair by the hearth. “I was trying to bring the bucket back and it had too much water, and he offered to help me and the bucket hit him in the face.”

The moment she assured her mother they were both fine, Abby set to work immediately, kneeling in front of the man’s face and gingerly peeling back the scrap of Clarke’s dress. She was always mystified watching her mother transition from woman into healer. She hummed to herself for a moment before disappearing into the kitchen, returning with several vials and bandages.

“What have I told you about filling that bucket too full?” her mother admonished quietly, and Clarke felt her throat seize up.

“She could’ve handled it herself,” the man piped up, “I was just trying to be gentlemanly. My mother would kill me if she knew I saw a woman carrying a bucket alone, no matter how empty the bucket or how sturdy the girl.” He met Clarke’s eyes over her mother’s head, and she gave him a small smile.

“Well, I am still sorry to have to treat you – although this will heal in no time,” Abby assured.

While her mother worked, Clarke made some tea with honey and lemon, waiting for it to cool slightly before passing it to the stranger. Her mother put the finishing touches on the bandages and nodded. “Just be careful with this for a few days,” she instructed. “Change the bandage once a day, and make sure it stays clean. You can come back here if you have any trouble.”

The man nodded again but averted his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered, and Abby smiled softly before she moved back to the kitchen.

He and Clarke sat in silence for a few beats while he sipped his tea. “I’m sorry, again,” she rushed out. Her fingers played with the rim of the mug. She wasn’t sure where this sudden nervousness had come from, nor why she seemed to be dreading the moment the man ultimately departed. Her brow furrowed when she realized she still didn’t know his name. “I’m Clarke, by the way.”

That smile was back, and her heart pounded in her chest. He slowly extended out his hand, placing it around hers again – it was meant to be a handshake, yet they just sat with their hands clasped together for several beats. “Bellamy.”

“Pleased to meet you, Bellamy,” she said quietly. His grin only widened.

“Likewise.”

He held her gaze for several seconds before clearing his throat and gently placing the mug on the table in front of him. “I should probably get going,” he rushed out, rising to his feet. Clarke stood as well with a nod. She stood in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself, when he turned around.

“May we meet again,” he said quietly, giving her a slight salute. She laughed, despite herself.

“May we meet again,” she repeated.

When Clarke awoke the next morning, the forgotten bucket was filled to the brim right outside the front door.

* * *

**ii.**

The second time, the world was on fire.

Bellamy’s ears hadn’t stopped ringing for days, it felt like, as he sprinted through the forest. He gripped his gun closer to his chest, eyes darting around as he tried to find the others in his unit. It was impossible with all of the smoke and debris clouding the air, the shouting and bombs collapsing into a singular dull noise. There was no one else in sight, but he had no way of telling who was friend and who was foe anyway – the screams all sounded the same.

He found a large tree and collapsed behind its trunk. His breathing was labored, and he could feel his heartbeat nearly bursting out of his chest, the fear and adrenaline keeping him alert even though every inch of his body ached with exhaustion. Closing his eyes, he thought of his sister: her face collapsing when his number had been called, her desperate and fervent request that he _bring his ass home._ Bellamy choked down a sob, shaking his head to clear it of the images. He didn’t have time for that right now.

His radio suddenly crackled at his hip, and he kept one hand on his gun as he fumbled for it. Miller’s voice came through distorted. “Blake, do you copy?”

“Yeah, yeah, I copy. Where the hell is everyone?” He could hear the telltale whirring of bullets flying through the air, and the smoke was growing thicker. Bellamy’s eyes roved across the lush landscape, and it made his heart ache for his grandmother’s village in the Philippines. He could see Octavia, toddling on the beaches while his mother nervously hovered behind her, ready to catch her if she fell; he could smell his grandmother’s cooking wafting through her house, her soft smile when he begged her to let him stir.

He wished this place felt a bit less like home.

Miller’s voice brought him back to reality. “No clue, man, but we got a soldier down over here and I need your help, we’re over by –” A bomb erupted, far too close for comfort, drowning out Miller’s voice. Bellamy fought the urge to cover his ears and gritted his teeth, scanning the land in front of him futilely.

“Repeat that, man, it’s too fucking loud, I can’t –”

“Everything looks the goddamn same anyway, I’m sending up a flare, hold on.”

Bellamy shifted to his knees, fixing his eyes above the treetops where the flare would erupt. He heard it before he saw it, but then the arc of red was cresting in the sky, cutting through the hazy gray smoke. “I see you. I’m on my way,” he yelled into the radio, holstering it and then climbing to his feet. He set off in a sprint, keeping his head down and ignoring the waves of shouts and screams. Following the fading tendrils of red, he skidded to a halt when he saw Miller crouched over someone in a small enclave of bushes.

“Hey,” Bellamy breathed as he approached, and Miller whirled around with his gun pointed. He sighed shakily when he saw Bellamy, returning his attention to the soldier on the ground.

“I found her over here like ten minutes ago, but I wasn’t sure –”

“Her?” Bellamy interrupted. He had never understood the women who had volunteered themselves for this war. He could still feel the dread pooling in his stomach when the draft was announced, when he sat with Octavia by his side, when number after number was called out across the eerily silent bar.

“Yeah. Griffin, she said.”

“C-Clarke,” the soldier suddenly bit out. “G-Griffin’s my l-last name.”

Bellamy moved his gaze from Miller to the wounded person in front of him, and he was first struck by the vibrancy of her eyes. Her face was caked in blood and mud, leaves stuck to her sweat-sodden shirt, but her eyes were crystal clear and as blue as the water on those beaches his sister had once walked.

“Blake. Bellamy Blake,” he responded, giving her a curt nod. His eyes pored over her shaking body, trying to find the source of the injury, and he stilled when he saw the imperfect tourniquet fashioned around her right leg. “What happened?” he asked without looking up at either soldier.

“We were running to the rendezvous spot when…” Miller hesitated. Bellamy looked up and found his friend’s eyes trained on Clarke, who was clenching her jaw.

“There w-was a kid, and he… he was t-trapped in the m-middle of all of this… _shit_ ,” she grit out, her fists shaking by her sides. “So I-I tried to get h-him out, he s-said his village was j-just over the hill back t-there, and M-Miller warned me…” Her eyes fluttered shut, and when she opened them again, Bellamy was struck by the honest vulnerability there, the unfettered pain she just allowed to sit in her face so openly.

“We h-hit a landmine,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “The k-kid stepped on it… and sh-shrapnel hit m-my leg.”

Bellamy swallowed thickly. He remembered his own first civilian casualty, a young mother screaming for him to find her daughter – he had begged her to stay calm, to not run off the way she had, because he knew what was coming, knew as soon as her foot stepped onto the ground that the bomb would go off.

He knew because he’d put it there.

“It’s not your fault,” Bellamy said quietly. “You tried to help him.”

“Yeah, l-look how well t-that turned out,” Clarke spat. Those blue, blue eyes met his, and he was once again blown away by how much emotion she was capable of holding in them: anguish and anger and heartbreak. He felt each wash over him, one at a time, and he didn’t think twice when he reached out to unfurl her fist and tangle his fingers with her own.

“We’ve all been there,” Bellamy murmured. “None of us are proud of it. Who… who we are, and who we need to be to survive… those are different things.”

Clarke’s body stilled for the first time, her eyes searching his face for God only knew what – hope, truth, maybe forgiveness. He tried to wear his emotions the way she did, wanted her to hear him as he silently implored, _If you need forgiveness, I’ll give that to you. You’re forgiven._

She gave him the tiniest of smiles, her teeth a blazing white against the dark muck covering her face, and he knew she’d found it.

“Alright, not to kill the vibe,” Miller said with a slight smirk, “but we really need to get the hell out of here.”

Bellamy looked up at him, clearing his throat. “Right. Murphy said we’d rendezvous on the beach. It’s gotta be close to here.”

“She can’t walk,” Miller pointed out, nodding at Clarke.

“Y-yes I can,” she said firmly, removing her hand from Bellamy’s grip to push herself off of the ground. He stretched his hand, ignoring the strange feeling of electricity coursing through his fingers. Clarke began to lift herself up, but as soon as she tried putting weight on her injured leg, she collapsed to the ground with a small cry. Bellamy steadied her as she fell, eyeing the wound warily.

“Yeah, that went well,” he deadpanned. He looked at Miller. “I’ll carry her. You cover me. If we move quickly, we might be okay.”

“N-no, I can _d-do it_ ,” Clarke said firmly, frustration coloring her voice.

Bellamy rolled his eyes. “Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of stubborn?”

She lifted her chin pointedly and flashed him a grin. “Every d-damn day.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, tough shit. You can’t walk, and we need to get outta here.” His gaze shifted to Miller again, who was watching the pair strangely. “Let’s do this.”

Miller nodded, cocking his gun. Bellamy slid his own gun to his back, shifting to a crouch and sliding one arm beneath Clarke’s legs and one behind her back. She was muttering a string of profanities under her breath that made him smirk, but they dissipated into a soft groan of pain when he lifted her off the ground. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“Alright, let’s move!” Miller shouted, breaking into a sprint.

Bellamy followed behind him quickly, arms tightening around Clarke to keep from irritating her injury. The trio flew through the trees, branches snapping against their arms, lungs burning from the smoke. The shouts were fading the farther they ran, and Bellamy could hear Murphy’s voice in his radio, but he didn’t have time to stop. Miller swept his gun side-to-side, bullets flying into nothing or into someone, they would never know. “There!” Miller shouted suddenly, nodding his head towards the small shoreline appearing at the end of the grass.

He could hear Clarke choke on a sob, and Bellamy couldn’t help but wonder if she was glad to be alive or just shocked they had made it. Murphy looked up when they approached, gun poised to shoot, but his face crumpled in relief when he realized who it was. “Thank fuck,” he said, grin tugging crookedly at his mouth. “Thought you’d both gone and gotten yourselves killed.”

“Thanks for believing in us,” Miller retorted, clapping him on the back. Murphy returned his attention to a young Asian kid on the ground – Monty, Bellamy thought his name was – his face creased with pain, and Miller moved to his other side to help Murphy treat him.

“Here you go,” Bellamy said quietly as he lowered Clarke to the ground. She winced when he removed his grip on her leg, but then she gave him a grateful smile that made something in his chest twinge painfully.

“T-thank you,” she whispered. Her hand reached for his to reconnect their palms, and she looked like she might say something else when Murphy bounded over.

“Helicopter’s almost here. There’s a medic waiting for us. Kid’s got a bullet in his ribcage we can’t get out ourselves,” he said curtly, nodding over to Monty. His eyes moved down to Clarke and Bellamy’s joined hands, then to the makeshift tourniquet on her leg. “We’ll get yours taken care of too, Griffin.” Clarke nodded. Murphy’s eyes met Bellamy’s only briefly, but there was a humored smirk on his lips before he circled to another group who had just arrived, carrying three wounded men between them.

The pair sat in silence, listening to the echoes of bombs, the aching grunts of the injured around them. “I know what you’re w-wondering,” Clarke said suddenly, eyes fixated on a dusty watch on her wrist. “You’re wondering w-hat the hell I’m doing h-here.”

“Well, I’d assume you’re here fighting a war,” Bellamy retorted, trying to make her smile. Her lips only twitched slightly.

After a pause, she murmured, “My dad d-died. H-he… he volunteered e-early, wanted to… to h-help the country, or s-some other patriotic b-bullshit.” Her voice broke and she rolled her eyes, a softness overtaking her face. “And I w-wanted to honor him, y-you know? It was j-just me, he d-didn’t have any b-boys, and… and I wanted t-to make sure h-he didn’t die for n-nothing.” Bellamy stared at the tear tracks cutting clear lines through the mess on her face, and he felt that constriction in his chest again. He thought, wrenchingly, of Octavia.

“S-seems pretty stupid n-now, huh?” she asked, her eyes watery when they met his own.

He shook his head. “Not stupid,” he assured. “Pretty damn brave, if you ask me.” She smiled at him and squeezed his hand. His entire heart swelled, and Bellamy searched her face, trying to pinpoint what it was about this girl – whom he’d met all of forty minutes ago – that was breaking bits of his soul.

His thoughts were interrupted when the helicopter whirred into view, and he gathered Clarke up again, helping her stand on her good leg. They watched the helicopter land together as Murphy helped move the wounded in first, and Bellamy climbed in after he eased Clarke up. Her hand was clutching his with a ferocity he didn’t think was possible for someone so small, and he crouched beside her as the doors shut and the helicopter took off.

They looked out the window as they rose above the decimated landscape. A bomb detonated below and the helicopter shook, sending Bellamy to his knees. He heard Miller curse behind him, felt Clarke’s nails dig into his palm. He stared in horror as flames swallowed the trees whole.

* * *

**iii.**

On their third meeting, there was a shot.

“Clarke, I swear to God, if you don’t hurry up –”

“I’m _coming_ , Jesus –”

“Name’s Raven, actually –”

“Ha. You’re hysterical.”

With a grunt of irritation, Clarke pulled the velvety blouse over her head, grimacing at her reflection. She fiddled with the thin straps and bit her lip as she surveyed the person in front of her. She looked like a stranger to herself: eyes puffy and almost bruised as a result of her months of insomnia, skin pallid. She tried to smile, to force some sort of life back into her features, but it just made her feel even more hollowed out.

Raven opened the door and leaned against the frame, crossing her arms across her chest. Her eyes looked over Clarke lazily, and she lifted an eyebrow before asking, “Ah, so you’re going to wear leggings with that, are you?”

Clarke fingered the hem of the blouse. “I don’t know if this is a good idea,” Clarke said quietly. She met Raven’s eyes in the mirror, and the warmth she found there comforted her. Her friend sighed and pushed off from the door, coming to stand behind her and place her hands on Clarke’s thin shoulders.

“I know this has been hard for you,” Raven murmured, “but he also wouldn’t want you to be living like this.”

Clarke sucked in a breath and blinked quickly to stop the tears that were already gathering in her eyes. “He’s only been dead nine months, Raven.”

“I know,” she said gently, fixing Clarke with a meaningful look. “He was your best friend. You don’t have to move on from that right away, or at all. But you’ve been cooping yourself up in this apartment since we moved in, binging that stupid shitty teenage soap opera I’ve now memorized the theme song of, and I’m a bit worried about your health.” Clarke let out a breathy laugh and Raven bumped her shoulder. “One drink, Clarke. We’ll go out for one drink, see the city, and we’ll be home before you know it. Plus, it’s New Year’s Eve. We can’t stay home tonight.”

Clarke closed her eyes and inhaled shakily. Wells’ face was papered against the backs of her lids: that boyish grin that he never quite grew out of, his booming laugh that echoed in her dorm room. She remembered when she’d told him that she’d been accepted into the Masters program at the University of Sydney, the next step for her to curate her own museum. He’d lifted her up into the air and spun her around, telling her over and over how proud he was of her.

“You’re going to be brilliant,” he’d said with all the confidence in the world.

She’d never believed it from anyone else from him.

Opening her eyes, she sighed. “One drink,” she repeated. Raven fist-pumped behind her, grinning wildly, and Clarke fought a smile on her own face.

Thirty minutes later, as they were squeezing into the overcrowded bar, Clarke began to regret the decision. They pushed through the throngs of people, all decked out in glitter and gold and wearing ridiculous headbands with _2030_ emblazoned on them. She and Wells’ lives had been so intertwined, they felt like one and the same, and she had been dreading this day since his death: the very first year she’d have to spend without him. The first of many, she realized. Her chest ached.

“One drink, Raven!” she shouted over the music, giving her friend a stern look. Raven merely rolled her eyes, beckoning Clarke forward towards the bar. She ordered two vodka sodas, passing one to Clarke. Sipping the drink slowly, her eyes roved over the sea of unfamiliar faces.

“Let’s find a quieter spot!” Raven said and pointed towards a secluded corner. Clarke nodded quickly, following her across the bar until they reached the tiny booth.

“Thank fuck.” Raven sat on one side, crossing one leg over the other and looking out into the mass of dancing, sweating people. “This isn’t so bad, right?” she asked, and Clarke could sense the nervousness in her voice.

  
“No, it’s not that bad,” she confirmed. She reached over to squeeze Raven’s hand. She knew how hard these last few months had been on Raven, too, as she watched Clarke slowly disintegrate before her very eyes. It was Raven who had been there when Clarke got the call, who had held her as she choked up every last sob her body could muster. Deep in her bones, Clarke knew her friend was just looking out for her.

Raven squeezed her hand back, clearing her throat before taking another sip of her drink. “So, see anyone interesting?” she asked brightly. Clarke laughed, rolling her eyes.

“C’mon, we’re not here to meet people tonight,” she chastised. “Plus, getting with someone on New Year’s is such a cliché.”

“Maybe, but also, it’s _fun_ ,” Raven countered with a wink.

Clarke laughed again. She couldn’t remember feeling this carefree since Wells had died, couldn’t remember the last time she had just sat in a bar and laughed with her friends. The rest of their friends had left town for the holiday, and even though they had asked she and Raven to come, Clarke she wasn’t up for it. She had told Raven to go – “You don’t need to be around mopey me all the time,” she’d begged – but Raven had shaken her off.

“They’re just going to the coast. Plus, I have to work anyway,” she’d said with a shrug.

But Clarke had heard her on the phone. “I can’t leave her alone for that long,” Raven had whispered. “We’ll just stay here.”

Gratitude and longing collided in her chest.

She shook her head to center herself. When she looked up, she caught Raven staring at something with a small smile toying with her lips. Following her gaze to a tall man with a buzz cut, Clarke grinned widely. “Are you going to go talk to him?” she asked cheekily, wiggling her eyebrows.

Raven rolled her eyes. “Clarke, please,” she said, exasperated, “I promised you one drink.”

“Raven,” Clarke said softly, “I’m fine. I’m having fun, even! Go talk to the cute boy.”

Raven’s eyes searched her face and she tried to look as upbeat as possible. Biting her lip, her friend glanced back at the man, before sighing. “Okay. But you tell me as _soon_ as you’re ready to leave, deal?” She stuck out her pinky.

Clarke wrapped her own pinky around Raven’s extended one. “Deal. Now _go_.”

Giving her a wink, she watched as Raven saddled up to the stranger, their faces close as they tried to hear each other over the music. The stranger took Raven’s hand and began to move her to the dance floor, and Raven sent her a nervous smile over her shoulder.

She laughed to herself, shifting her focus back to her drink. Suddenly, another body slouched into the empty booth seat across from her.

“Did your drink say something funny?” a husky voice asked.

Clarke’s eyes shot up to see a strange man, hair tousled and hanging a bit long around his shoulders, freckles cresting his nose right above a scruffy beard. She leaned back in her seat, astounded by his audacity, but even more shocked at how unafraid she was of the stranger.

“Hm, I’m not quite that drunk yet,” she responded easily, sliding her finger around the rim of the plastic cup. “A couple more and maybe I’ll find that pick-up line charming.”

The man grinned widely. Without missing a beat, he reached a hand out across the table. “I’m Bellamy,” he said.

She took his hand in her own, shaking once. “Clarke,” she replied.

“Well, Clarke, it’s wonderful to meet you. Can I get you a drink? Just to speed along this process of finding me charming.” Clarke could feel herself smiling, and she was almost angry with herself for falling so easily for his obvious game. She glanced over her shoulder, searching the crowd for Raven and her own strange man, but came up short.

“Does this usually work for you?” she asked. She could hear herself flirting, could feel the flush in her cheeks, and she hadn’t felt this human in so many months.

Bellamy laughed, and it was a loud, hearty thing, warming Clarke’s chest. “Well,” he said, tossing back the rest of his beer, and pausing as if in thought. “Usually, yeah.”

“I appreciate your honesty.”

“As a token of your appreciation, why don’t you let me buy you a drink?”

Clarke’s eyes roved over him for a moment, sizing him up. Her competitive streak set in, igniting in her gut. “You can buy me a drink,” she acquiesced, “but you should know I’m not looking for anything tonight.”

A grin broke across his face again. “You’re a little stubborn, anyone ever tell you that?”

She thought of Wells.

“Maybe once or twice,” she said wistfully. She could feel Bellamy’s eyes on her, and she somehow knew – deep in her bones – that he understood.

“Let’s get that drink then, huh?” His voice was soft, and she was immensely grateful that he didn’t press her, didn’t force her to talk about it, even as Wells’ name choked the back of her throat.

Forcing brightness into her tone, she cocked her head and asked, “How about a shot, instead?”

“I like the way you think, Clarke.”

As they stood up from the booth, Bellamy offered her his hand. She hesitated for a breath before intertwining her fingers with his own, following him through the crowd of people towards the bar. He leaned over the counter to order two kamikaze shots, gesturing for Clarke to join him. His arm fell easily around her body, holding her steady as people jostled behind her.

The bartender placed the shots in front of them, nodding in gratitude when Bellamy passed him a wad of cash. “Alright, Clarke,” he said with a smile, “here’s to 2030, huh?”

“To 2030,” she agreed, clinking her cup against his before downing the cold liquid. She shook her head as the liquor hit her throat, groaning slightly.

“Been a minute since I’ve had one of those, Jesus,” he coughed, and Clarke laughed.

“Same. I haven’t been out in months, and I don’t think my body even remembers what alcohol is like.”

Bellamy leaned against the bar, removing his hand from around her back. She immediately missed his warmth, and tried not to wonder too deeply about that. “Don’t tell me you’re a homebody,” he teased.

And she wasn’t sure if it was him – the easiness of his smile, the complete openness of his eyes – or if the alcohol was just hitting her system far faster than she was prepared for, but she blurted, “My best friend died in March.”

She waited for him to stumble over his words, to make quick excuses to get away from her. But instead, his eyes just softened, and something close to understanding crested across his features. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he near-whispered, and Clarke felt certain he meant it. “My mom died last year. It was hell. Especially on New Year’s.”

Clarke nodded, leaning closer to him. “I’m sorry for your loss, too.”

This time, his smile was small and gentle. “I appreciate it.”

Before she could think about it too much or talk herself out of it, she said, “As a token of your appreciation, why don’t you come dance with me?”

His eyes bore into her own, and she left her gaze open, unabashed. Nodding, he grabbed her hand again, guiding her out into the mosh of people, holding her body close.

When the clock struck midnight, she placed her hands on either side of his face, dragging his lips to her own. She would swear he tasted like hope.

* * *

**iv.**

It was at the dropship door that they met a fourth time.

Bellamy still remembered the way she’d looked at him that day, eyes as blue as the base of a flame, confident and unyielding as she burst through the crowd of rowdy teenagers. There was something very near hatred, then, but something else too: a hesitant sense of trust.

Sun setting over the horizon, he looked out over his people – their people – reconnecting and comforting each other. Clarke was quiet beside him, her mother’s death fresh, her heart-wrenching plea echoing in his ears. _Tell me it was worth it._

Soon, he would follow Octavia and Gabriel and Hell would be amongst them again. But in that moment, relieved in the very fact of their aliveness, his mind traveled back to that dropship door. So much time had passed, so much space crossed, since that fateful day. He wondered if he would even recognize the boy he’d been then.

“Clarke,” he said quietly, waiting for her to lift her head and meet his gaze. “Do you ever think about the day we met?”

She smiled softly, surprising him, as she often did. She paused for only the briefest of moments.

Then, laughing, she asked, “Which time?”


End file.
